Maura
by OuEstLaCraie
Summary: Dean's perfect woman wanders into his life just as the world is threatening to come to an end, and he's happy to have her. But what secrets is she keeping from him? And how much does she really know about the coming Apocalypse?


**_Author's Note: I know, I know, I know, I have other stories that need some love, but this idea popped up and it was too good to pass up. Slow updates, per usual with me (I'm so sorry!), but keep an eye out, all right? This is set just a little while after Episode 4.21 , "When the Levee Breaks," so, of course, spoilers for all of Season 4. When you're done, don't forget to drop me a line and lemme know what you think!_**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own anyone you recognize from my most-loved show, _Supernatural. _But Maura _is_ mine--and you can't have her!**

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He had said words to his brother that never should have come between them. The End of Days was fast approaching. He had pledged to be, as Bobby had oh so delicately put it, the angels' bitch. Either he or his brother was the key to stopping it all, that whole Apocalypse thing, but the lines had blurred somewhere along the way, and he was losing faith. Was it him? Was it Sam? And how the hell was either of them supposed to do _anything_ about _any _of this? The fate of the world weighed heavier on his shoulders than the planet's mass had sat on Atlas'.

And what was Dean Winchester doing, right at this very moment?

He was sitting in a bar off some rural byway, working his way through the third beer of the night and ogling a girl.

The typical hum of a crowded, redneck barroom was deeply comforting, what with the truckers arm wrestling in the corner and the jukebox rigged to repeat Patsy Cline until the cows came home and small town girls giggling into the ears of blushing, lost city boys. Beer flowed freely (for a price) into chipped glass mugs, every mug matching its brother but entirely separate in its imperfections and history. Allowing himself to wax philosophical, Dean mused idly into his emptying glass that there was a _story_ attached to each glass, and a damn good tale to boot. Bar fights, proposals, business deals…who knew?

_Who cares? _he growled silently to himself, and set the mug down with a slam. His temper flared, but receded as quickly as it had appeared. He was a study in contradictions these days; a right barrel of laughs. He hadn't been thinking of much lately but angels and demons and his libido had suffered. Not that he'd ever admit that aloud, to _anyone_. Dean Winchester did _not_ fall out of practice when it came to sex. Sometimes, other things were just more important.

Like the end of the world.

But damn, he wanted to get laid before that happened. That old, familiar urge bubbled in the pit of his stomach and drew his eyes back to the girl. She had sauntered in about half an hour ago and sat herself at the bar, a stranger in a strange land but looking the part well enough to get left alone. Her clothes were too nice, too new, for her to be a townie, and she had made the blunder of ordering chardonnay and then throwing a mini hissy fit when the bartender offered her beer, beer, or beer. Whiskey, if she wanted something a little stronger. Some scotch, if she was willing to pay.

She took the beer.

As far as Dean could tell, she was still nursing the same glass of mahogany-tinted liquid, and she hadn't been approached once since she'd entered. Maybe she threw off a vibe; he couldn't tell from this far away. And there was only one way to find out.

He picked up the mug and sloshed what was left of his beer around at the bottom, then stood and strode purposefully across the place. God, she was gorgeous—red hair ran down her back, blazing brighter than a funeral pyre, matched with smoky blue eyes that weren't quite dark enough to be gray and weren't quite happy enough to be bright or dancing. She was the epitome of sultry, from the sexy strapless shirt she wore under a worn, leather motorcycle jacket down to her tailored Italian boots, every curve emphasized and every movement calculated to up the attraction factor. She didn't fit in with this crowd of ruffians—some locals, some who might as well have been locals, and a few hunters, if Dean had judged correctly—but she was young and she was beautiful and Dean knew only one other thing about her.

He _had_ to have her.

He sat himself on a stool a little to her left, leaving enough personal space between them to let her keep her feeling of security. No warning bells had gone off, no sirens had shrieked; not one thing about her proclaimed, "Stay away!" More to the point, not one thing about her exactly screamed, "Good girl!" either. He allowed himself a small smile of triumph. Thank God for small favors.

"Next round's on me, honey," he rumbled, flashing that trademark grin of his when she turned and met his dark green eyes with her gaze the color of twilight's sky. He leaned a little closer. "My name's Dean."

"Maura," she replied, rolling the name off her tongue seductively. She drained the beer in one quick gulp, to get things going, and held it out to him with a laughing, dazzling grin. "Well, where's my drink, Dean?"

"Coming right up. Barkeep!" He pounded a fist on the bar, rattling the dollar store ashtrays, and felt his heart thumping hard when she laughed at his antics, appreciative. "Two more, sir. And anything the lady orders is on me."

"What chivalry," the bartender, an older man, noted, rolling his eyes, because Dean wasn't exactly the picture of subtlety...or originality. Guys like him—with rugged good looks and a snarling muscle car—never came into places like this just for the drinks.

They got their beers and took their first sips in companionable silence. After a long draught, stealing the moment to properly eyeball her, Dean set the mug aside and asked conversationally, "So, what brings a girl like you into a place like this?"

"Well, isn't it obvious?" There was a mischievous glimmer in her eye as she practically read his mind—his thoughts were practically written on his face, anyway. But she continued with a bit of a disappointment, saying, "The stellar service and high level of morality amongst its clientele."

He nodded as he took another long chug of his beer. "Fair enough. I come for the booze and the chicks."

She laughed again, thoroughly enjoying him. She leaned on the bar, perched on the edge of the stool and maintaining perfect balance. "Dean, is it?"

"That's me. Dean Winchester." He shivered a little at the look in her eyes. It wasn't fun or playful for half a moment; it looked more like she was remembering hearing that name at another time, in another place. It was almost like she recognized him, and was glad of the fact that he had no idea who she was. But it was just a trick of the light, must have been, because she was smiling again as he asked, "And where did you come from, Maura?"

She inched forward. "Do you want to get out of here?"

He chuckled into his drink, playing nonchalant when he would have done her on the bar top if she'd asked. "Cute," he managed, setting the mug back on the counter to stare her dead in the eye. "Don't say things you don't mean, little girl."

"What, Dean? That isn't _exactly _what you were hoping I'd say?" She crept closer, one hand straying dangerously high on his thigh. She grinned when his breath hitched. "I'll have you know, Mr. Winchester, that I would never say a word I didn't mean with all my heart. And from the minute I walked in here tonight, I knew you were the one."

"The one…what?"

She giggled and turned away, back to the bar counter to finish her beer. "That's for me to know and you to find out."

He could accept that. "So, where are we getting out of here to?"

"Follow my lead," she quipped back, her voice low and her eyes just begging for him. She sashayed out of her seat and took a few, long paces away, then turned back to wait for him.

Dean caught up, strolling easily at her side towards the double doors to make their exit. "You need a ride?" He hoped she'd say yes; he always liked showing new girls the Impala. Let's face it—it turned them on.

She cocked her head at the inquiry. "Well, I thought that was obvious. Why else would I have come onto you?" She smirked at her witty retort, congratulating herself when Dean could only muster a wolfish grin in reply. They swung the doors open, eyes locked, and grinned as they entered the night air in stride.

The bartender, busy with drying the same glass for the last thirty years, shook his head sadly in the direction of the bar's entrance. "Poor guy," he growled. "She'll eat him alive."

"Dead man walking," one of the arm wrestlers agreed gravely.

And then they promptly forget all about Dean Winchester and the redheaded vixen he was intent on making it with that night. There were other, more pressing issues to deal with—like who was paying for the next round of beers.

Outside, Dean began the walk to the back of the quiet parking lot, to the spot where his baby was parked. He let his eyes rove over the other vehicles, scanning for the car that belonged to his mystery girl. The pickup? Nah, too country bumpkin—not her style. Maybe the sporty little thing he'd passed up front? Or would a girl who looked like that want something older, a little more…awesome? He unlocked the Impala's driver side door and pulled it open, pausing before climbing in when a motorcycle roared to life at the front of the lot. A zippy bike growled up to his side, and he watched her eyes wrinkles when she grinned under the solid black helmet. Oh, yeah, it was Maura, all right—he'd _never _forget that body.

She lifted the helmet off her head to yell over the engine, "I hope that ancient piece of shit can keep up."

Dean sputtered, enraged, and almost considered giving up on the whole idea. He had no place to stay the night just yet, but he could drive all night and convince himself he was happy; no one had ever insulted his car and lived to tell the tale. Or, at the very least, ever tried to do it again.

But the sight of her speeding off into the night, her form perched on the motorcycle as she receded into the night, Dean panicked and hurried to catch up. "Sorry, baby," he muttered, patting the steering wheel, and pealed out of the lot after her. He felt a little guilty, letting some bar bitch talk smack about his car, but he wasn't exactly thinking with his head or his heart at this point. He was sure he'd find a way to forgive himself in the morning.

He followed her down the road a few miles, until they reached a hole-in-the-wall, no-tell motel. She pulled into a spot and Dean did the same, just beside her, and smiled a little, appreciatively. It was the same kind of place he'd pick for himself.

"What," he quipped, locking up the Impala for the night and watching her shimmy off the motorcycle, "no Hilton within driving distance?"

"I'm roughing it," she shot back, and tucked the helmet under one arm. "Come on; you'll _love_ the room."

She unlocked her door, number five, and flicked on the overhead light. The rug squished a little underfoot and the room smelled heavily of stale booze and unpleasant sex. The stench wasn't helped by the unnatural humidity in the cubbyhole, but there was a queen-sized bed situated against the far wall, just beckoning them forward, and that was all that really mattered.

Maura shut the door gently behind them. There was a beat of silence, then she said, "I'm guessing we don't want to waste our time with small talk."

Dean shrugged, as if it didn't matter at all. "Ah, well, there's always time later, right?" He glanced back at her over his shoulder, grinning at her again and hoping her heart was melting like it was supposed to. "There isn't much I want to share on my end—you?"

Her hand still hovering over the light switch, she swatted her fingers downward and plunged the room into darkness once again. "Take me to bed, Dean," he heard her purr.

He reached in the general direction of her voice and drew her in close, pulling them both backward and tumbling onto the bed. He was only too glad to oblige.

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